


Three Heartbeats

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Whump, broken ribs, ill-timed flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 21:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16879791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: "Hey," she says weakly. "Did we win?""They're all dead," Yasha assures her, still too distracted by the unnatural twist of Beau's right arm, the labored sound of her breathing. Yasha is no cleric—she may have managed to yank Beau back from the brink of death, but she can'tfixher. She needs to get her back to people who can.Good thing they're stranded alone in the middle of fucking nowhere. Nothing but trees and knotty, gnarled paths for miles in every direction. Yasha glares up at the grey-orange sky, like her anger alone can stop the sun from setting, the earth from turning, the girl she (loveslikeswants) cares for from dying in her arms.





	Three Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkthegale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkthegale/gifts).



> walkthegale requested Beauyasha + "broken ribs" for Bad Things Happen Bingo, and this happened. Enjoy.

Usually Yasha’s rages are a cold, blank release, a power thrumming just beneath her skin, easily in reach. When she sees that piece of shit go after an already-unconscious Beauregard, though—she finally, finally understands what it means to  _see red._ To have rage truly take over and consume all else.

“What’s wrong, little angel?” the man jeers, the toe of his boot still on Beau’s prone body. “I’m sure your girlfriend here can take a few hard knocks, can’t she—”

That’s the last thing he says before Yasha snaps his neck.

+

She almost sobs in relief when Beau’s eyes flutter open, the healing magic coursing through her broken body from Yasha’s shaking palms.

“Hey,” she says weakly, and it’s so wrong because this is _Beau,_ and she should never sound weak or scared or hurt. “Did we win?”

“They’re all dead,” Yasha assures her, still too distracted by the unnatural twist of Beau’s right arm, the labored sound of her breathing. Yasha is no cleric—she may have managed to yank Beau back from the brink of death, but she can’t _fix_ her. She needs to get her back to people who can.

Good thing they’re stranded alone in the middle of fucking nowhere. Nothing but trees and knotty, gnarled paths for miles in every direction. Yasha glares up at the grey-orange sky, like her anger alone can stop the sun from setting, the earth from turning, the girl she ( _ ~~loves~~ ~~likes~~ ~~wants~~_ ) cares for from dying in her arms.

“Okay,” she says, trying to sound calm, gentle. “Okay, Beau, I’m going to need you to sit up. You think you can do that?”

“Sure,” she grits. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and Yasha can’t help but think that Beau was better off unconscious, not feeling every inch of her that’s been broken. “Sure, yeah, I can do that. I could punch a bear right now.”

“Don’t talk so much,” she chides softly. “I think your ribs are broken.”

“Oh. Dope. Explains why— _ha—_ why it hurts to fuckin’ breathe. Yup.”

“Beau.”

“Hm?” Her eyes have fluttered shut again, her head still pillowed in Yasha’s lap. It’s hard to tell if Beau’s whole body is trembling, or if maybe that’s just Yasha.

She brushes some sweat-soaked strands of hair off Beau’s forehead. Beau gives this soft little sigh in response to her touch, but for the moment Yasha’s too worried to even blush about it.

“Sitting up?” she prompts her. “Remember?”

“Oh.” Beau’s eyes open again, bewildered. “Damn. I thought I already was.”

“Okay.” Yasha tries to stay calm, tries not to think of the possibility of Beau’s head being injured too. “Okay, I’m going to help you sit up, all right? On the count of three.” She takes a breath. “One—two—three—”

Slowly, as carefully and gently as she can (which is... not very; her hands were always meant to break, to hurt, rather than to heal or nurture), she manages to prop Beau up into an upright sitting position. Beau doesn’t resist or complain at all. Her breath escapes in a low, shaky hiss, more sweat beading at her temples.

She takes Beau’s left hand, which had reflexively leapt to grip at her injured torso. Her right arm is still curled protectively against her side. Yasha gives her hand a hopefully comforting squeeze before lowering it away from her injuries.

“Your arm. Is it broken?”

Beau blinks, and then glances down like she was surprised by the question. “Uh. Think your magic healed it up.” With a grimace, she gingerly extends her right arm and clenches and unclenches her fist a few times. “I think... y-yeah, I think it’s fine.”

Okay _._ _Okay_. That’s something. Yasha grabs the healer’s kit Beau always carries around in her pack, and hesitates as she starts pulling out the bandages within. This isn’t her first time administering first aid, but usually the stakes are lower—usually she’s doing it to herself.

Yasha knows her body. She knows too well how much punishment it can take, and what she needs to do to keep it going. But this...

Beau gets wracked by a brief coughing fit, then, choking it off with this low noise between a groan and a whimper. She tips her head back, eyes squeezed shut, her fists clenched tight around the fabric of her pants. Yasha doesn’t ask if she’s okay. She knows it’s a stupid question, and one neither of them tends to answer truthfully anyway.

“If you need to,” says Yasha, “we can rest for a little while, but soon we have to start moving.”

Even if they don’t make it to the rendezvous by tonight—which seems likely, given Beau’s condition—she knows they can’t stay out here. They should at the very least get as far as they can and find a decent place to camp, and pray they get close enough for the others to be able to track them.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Beau mutters. “I’m aces. We can go—right now.”

“Beauregard,” she says, gentle. “Shut up.”

For once, Beau obeys, and she stays mostly quiet except for her quick, shallow breathing, and one weak quip about “takin’ a girl out for dinner first” when Yasha pulls off Beau’s shirt. She silently prays to the Stormlord that Beau’s ribs haven’t punctured her lungs, and then she wraps her chest as tight as she confidently can. Yasha knows if it were her own ribs, she would have bandaged them far tighter, but there is something deep inside her that is so, so terrified of hurting Beauregard in any capacity.

She tugs Beau’s shirt back over her head and then takes her own shawl to wrap around Beau’s shoulders for good measure, her hands lingering over the warm brown skin of her arms.

“Hey,” mumbles Beau with a grin, “finally got you to lend me this. Sweet.”

“I _have_ offered it to you before,” says Yasha, pulling away.

“Yeah. But you didn’t mean it those times,” she says casually, still smiling up at her with that familiar, fond look in her eyes, the one that always makes Yasha’s mouth go dry. “This time, though, this time you didn’t even ask if I wanted it.”

Yasha holds her gaze for one, two, three heartbeats. Then she stands.

“Come on,” she says. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

+

Their progress is unbearably slow.

Yasha walks on Beau’s more severely injured side, the shorter woman’s arm looped around her waist for support. They move through the gnarled, uneven ground of the woods like in one of those strange, demented three-legged races Yasha remembers observing at a festival in Zadash.

Beau’s breathing remains rapid, shallow, and Yasha knows from experience how painfully difficult it is to take proper breaths with fractured ribs, how every cell in the body seems to be flinching away from the very idea. Still, this is so much worse because it’s _Beauregard._ She’s not like Yasha. She shouldn’t have to suffer this.

They take a break, on Yasha’s insistence, after about an hour of walking. Beau claims she doesn’t need to rest but as soon as they stop, she sags against the trunk of a tree, coughing and groaning.

Yasha squints up at the sky. There’s not much daylight left at this point, and they’re nowhere near where they have to be.

She glances at Beau. She knows this is a profoundly stupid idea, but—

“All right,” Yasha says. “I’m going to carry you.”

Beau winces. “Yash, seriously—I’m _good_ —”

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” Yasha interrupts. She softens. “We’re not getting anywhere at this rate, Beau. The only reason I haven’t been lugging you through these woods myself is because I was scared of making your injuries worse.”

Beau is quiet for a few moments, but eventually she pushes herself upright.

“Do I have to pay you five gold?”

Yasha bites back a smile. “Let’s say this one’s on the house.”

Without further preamble, she sweeps Beau into her arms, feeling vaguely like drawing out the process will only result in her hurting Beau more. She tries to ignore the way her heart twists in response to the low, ragged cry torn from Beau’s throat when Yasha moves her, like the sound of a wounded animal.

“Motherfucker,” she hisses. Shakier than Yasha’s ever heard her.

“You all right?” Yasha asks, once she’s sure her hold on Beau is secure and as comfortable as she can make it.

“I feel—” Beau clenches her teeth, relaxes enough to shoot Yasha a wobbly smirk. “I feel like a new bride.”

“If you say so,” she says drily, starting to move. “As long as you don’t die before the honeymoon.”

She keeps up a decent pace after that, going as fast as she dares without jostling Beau too much. She’s much heavier than she appears, all densely toned muscle packed into a small, angular frame. With her pressed tight against Yasha’s chest like this, it’s almost as if she can feel Beau’s every breath reverberate into Yasha’s own bones. _One-two, one-two, one-two..._

When evening hits and the terrain gets trickier to navigate even with darkvision, Yasha mutters some words under her breath—and then their surroundings are bathed in warm yellow light, radiating from Beau’s quarterstaff currently slung across Yasha’s back.

“Whoa.” Beau blinks blearily up at her. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

Yasha glances down and smiles faintly, not slowing her pace for a second. “Caleb usually has a handle on the lighting situation.”

“Mm. I kinda like yours better.” Beau’s mouth quirks. “Less—showy, y’know? But just as... light-y.”

“I can make it change colour too.” Without thinking, she casts the cantrip again, and the light from the staff turns from yellow to a bright, electric blue.

“Wow.” Beau blinks again, and then her smile turns sly. “Y’know, just ’cause—just ’cause I’m Cobalt Soul doesn’t mean my favourite colour has to be blue.”

“I wasn’t—” Yasha frowns, examining Beau’s face, beaded with sweat and purpled with bruises but also, also bathed in the warm glow of Yasha’s light. Maybe that’s allowed to matter, too.

She realizes too late that the cantrip is the same blue as Beauregard’s eyes. She tears her gaze away.

“It is, though.” Beau’s voice startles her, after a few minutes of steady jogging and silence.

“What?”

“Blue _is_ my favourite colour,” she says sheepishly. “Even... even though I just gave ya shit for it.”

“Oh. That’s okay.” Yasha keeps her gaze trained on the path ahead. “Stop talking so much. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Beau opens her mouth to say something more, but is wracked by another round of coughs. A line of saliva dribbles down her chin, dotted with red blood. _Fuck._

Yasha’s jogging speeds up as she tries not to panic. Broken ribs—Jester or Caduceus can fix that. But a ruptured lung? Or an infection? What if she doesn’t get to them in time? _Don’t panic. Don’t panic._

Yasha runs faster.

“Gods,” Beau rasps. Her hand clutches at the front of Yasha’s shirt. “Gods, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

Yasha’s gaze darts down. “You’re delirious,” she mutters. “And I thought I told you to stop talking.”

“Fuckin’ worth it.” Beau grins stupidly. “I’m—I’m so glad you cast that cantrip. ’Cause now I get... get to see you blush. It’s awesome.”

“If you die from flirting with me,” she says, “I swear, I will force Jester to bring you back just so I can murder you again.”

“Like I said.” Beau coughs again. “Worth it.”

Eventually they get somewhere that Yasha thinks is safe and comfortable enough to set up camp, and hopefully close enough to the others that they’ll be able to find them tomorrow. A part of her is tempted to keep traveling through the dark, Beau held close and safe against her chest, but even Yasha has to admit her own body is wearing out, her legs beginning to tremble with exertion. Besides—nothing good lurks in the woods at night. She’s learned that much.

Once Yasha’s got a good fire going, she drops to a seat next to where Beau is slumped.

“I’m gonna need to take off your shirt again,” she says softly. “And then I’m gonna unwrap the bandages, and I know it’s going to be shit, but—”

“I’m gonna... gonna have to take some big deep breaths,” Beau cuts her off. “It’ll hurt like a bitch. Yeah, I—I know the drill.”

“Right.” Yasha swallows and nods. “Your monk training.”

There’s a pause that’s a second too long, before Beau huffs a laugh like she’s remembering some inside joke. “Yeah,” she says roughly. “Monk training.”

A few moments later, they’ve got Beau’s bandages off. She’s shivering and obviously uncomfortable, slumped sideways against an uneven tree stump.

Yasha gets another terrible idea—this time, though, it’s terrible for a different reason, one that has more to do with Yasha’s emotional stability than Beau’s physical health.

With a sigh, and trying not to think too hard about it, she scoots to a sitting position behind Beau and begins tugging her gingerly towards her. Beau freezes at first but is quick to co-operate when she understands her intention, and soon they’ve maneuvered themselves into a semi-comfortable position with Beau settled in Yasha’s lap, leaning back against her steady warmth.

“Beau,” she murmurs, “I need you to breathe.”

She complies.

The first one is the worst. She inhales, long and shuddery, and when she finally exhales, this terrible ragged sob escapes along with her breath.

Yasha takes Beau’s hands in hers, massaging her knuckles and bracing them against the injured ribs. “Good,” she murmurs. “That was good.”

Beau does it again, another deep, rattling breath and mangled sob. Her hands squeeze Yasha’s so hard that they threaten to crush Yasha’s bones into dust, her nails digging sharp into Yasha’s skin. Probably enough to draw blood.

“S-sorry,” Beau mutters shakily, loosening her grip.

“It’s all right,” says Yasha, soft. “I can take it. Go again.”

Beau breathes again. And again, and again, her hands trapping Yasha’s in an iron grip, but Yasha’s squeezing her in return too, hoping—maybe, probably in vain—that she’s anchoring her somehow, grounding her, offering her something other than pain.

After the breathing, another violent round of coughs rip through Beau, loud enough that Yasha’s worried about attracting attention from nearby predators. She holds her steady through the fit, her hands twined with Beau’s still pressing her ribs firmly in place.

Eventually, finally, Beau falls quiet, her breaths small and shallow again.

With some ridiculous reluctance, Yasha releases her hands. She busies herself with adjusting her shawl still around Beau’s shoulders, wrapping it more snugly around her.

“They always said I’d die young,” Beau croaks, “but no one could’ve guessed I’d die in the arms of a godsdamn angel.”

Yasha stills. “You’re not going to die.”

There are a few more moments of silence filled only by the sounds of slow, shaky breathing.

“I know,” she says finally. “I know you won’t let me die. I just wanted to use that line.”

Yasha breathes out, closes her eyes, and rests her chin gently on Beau’s head. Allows herself this tiny moment of warmth for one, two, three heartbeats.

“Please do me a favour,” Yasha murmurs, pulling back, “and fall asleep now.”

They’re both quiet for a long time after that. But just as she begins to believe that Beau actually did as she ordered and at last dozed off—

“Hey,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Can you do that spell again?”

“Why? We already have the fire.” Moreover, Yasha’s worried about the kind of attention a bright radius of light like that might attract.

“I just...” Beau’s voice wobbles. “It just feels like—”

 _Like an admission,_ Yasha’s thoughts finish for her. _Like a confession—‘your eyes are home for me.’ Your eyes and smile and terrible flirting. Like, ‘It’s selfish, but I don’t want you to leave me yet.’ Like, ‘I think I love you.’_

“It’s just nice,” says Beau quietly. “It’s a nice colour.”

“Okay,” Yasha whispers. She casts the spell. Let the wolves, bandits, terrors come, she thinks. Beauregard is right about one thing—Yasha will not let her die.

Eventually Beau relaxes and falls asleep in her arms, blanketed in familiar blue light. Yasha waits, waits until the embers of the campfire flicker to nothing, waits until the sixty minutes pass and her spell extinguishes itself. Then she casts it again. She doesn’t sleep, but she is warm and full, and for tonight, for tonight, her rage is set to the side. Quiet, at rest.


End file.
